


A Creeping Thief

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: Raffles misses Bunny's poetry, so Bunny writes him a poem.





	

“Bunny,” he asked suddenly, looking up from the brooding stance of the last half-hour, “do you ever write poetry anymore?”

“Why, no, not much.”

Raffles nodded wearily and muttered, “It’s a shame. I liked your little poems so much.”

Bunny stared. He had hardly remembered his days of wrestling with that particular muse—she’d been so demanding and fickle—and was amazed to learn that Raffles still thought of it. Had Raffles really liked his silly rhymes so much? So much?

It occurred to him that perhaps this was just nostalgia speaking. Probably, Raffles had been thinking of their school days and missing the parts of them that were now absent—youth, innocence (well, a little innocence anyhow), and, apparently, poetry. Probably, if he read any poem Bunny had written in the last ten years now, he would scoff, or smile politely, and push it away, disillusioned. Still, the germ of a thought had already burrowed into Bunny’s mind. If Raffles truly liked his poems, maybe there was a way Bunny could bring a little more joy into his life. If only the muse would cooperate.

***

When he saw Bunny tapping his fingers nervously against the table as they sat over dinner, he knew something was up. If they had had a job on the horizon, Raffles would dismiss it as nerves over that—and such valuable nerves they so often proved to be. But they didn’t. Their last little heist had been long ago enough that Bunny’s fear of the police, silly rabbit, had faded to its usual level, but recent enough that they were still in funds. Whatever the matter was, he would find out soon enough.

On the walk back to the Albany, Raffles noted that Bunny’s hand kept straying unconsciously to his breast pocket. Evidently there was some slip of paper or other small matter on his mind. A bill, perhaps? A letter from his editor? It was tempting to ask, but he did not want to pry. Bunny would tell him in his own good time.

His own time turned out to be scarcely an hour later as they sat with their Sullivans in front of the hearth. Bunny cleared his throat and Raffles instantly perked his ears, though he pretended complete nonchalance.

“I—I’ve been writing again—“ from his editor then “—and I was rather hoping I might get your opinion on a little something.”

“Why of course, my rabbit. You know I’m always happy to offer what advice I may.”

“It’s not very good, I know, but it’s…it’s such a difficult topic for me to really express clearly, you see.”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine, Bunny—read it, if you please.”

“Well, alright then—only don’t be too harsh.” Raffles watched the blush creeping over his face and wondered briefly what was so sensitive? And if it was so difficult to share, even with him, how on earth would Bunny bring himself to publish it? But then Bunny cleared his throat, visibly steeled himself, and began reading.

 

_A creeping thief in Love’s dim hall_

_Surveys the portraits on the wall;_

_Faces fair that he has known,_

_But none to fill Love’s golden throne._

_He leaves the portraits alone._

_In the jewel case, Memory’s pearls_

_Remind him of his raven curls,_

_Of cricket ‘neath a sapphire sky,_

_Of ease and fame in days gone by._

_These pearls are dull; he lets them lie._

_Behind the ever-ticking clock_

_He finds the safe and picks the lock:_

_Emeralds, diamonds, pure and bright_

_Gleam as he lifts them to the light,_

_A thousand stars in this long night._

_But stars will fade and pass away,_

_Out of sight by break of day._

_Such trinkets he doth pay no mind,_

_A greater prize he knows he’ll find_

_As he steals through rooms til reaching—mine._

_‘Oh Thief!’ I cry, ‘You’ve no work here._

_You’ve passed by all those things most dear._

_I freely give thee all I own,_

_A loving heart, a simple home,_

_Take them—they are yours alone.’_

As he read, he did not lift his eyes from the paper; if he had, he might have been puzzled by the wild mix of emotions on Raffles’s face. As it was, he did not see Raffles stand when Bunny said “til reaching—mine.” He did not see him stepping closer at “a loving heart.” It came as a complete surprise to him when, at the moment the poem ended, Raffles took him in his arms and held him as though he’d never let go. He did not see the tears that he had raised in those eyes he loved so well. But he felt them as they spilled against his cheek.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> you don't realize how long it's been since you've written a rhyming poem until you struggle to come up with rhymes for "lie" -_-


End file.
